Finally, he remembered what he'd done the last time and put his arm around her. She began to move almost immediately at that, crawling into arms he closed around her as she practically tried to crawl into his clothes.
In what was almost a repeat of what had happened weeks before, he stood with her then and carried her out to his car, not giving a fuck who saw him with a little yellow rabbit as the rest of the team kept everyone else away from them.
As he drove her back to his place, she lay slumped in her seat as if she'd fainted but he could see that she hadn't because she was still trembling, her small hands clutching at the rabbit and he couldn't help himself. He had to reach over and take her hand in his. Long moments later, hers stirred sluggishly.
"Here, honey. Hold onto Wabbit. He'll help you stay safe until I can get you back into my arms." He wanted to tell her that they were almost home, but he didn't, because he didn't think it would mean anything to her.
Less than fifteen minutes later, she was in his living room, on his lap, in his arms, crying continually, so hard that she was soaking herself and him, not that he cared. At least she wasn't cold and wet like before, but even so, he'd debated about a shower, just for its soothing effects, but he postponed it because the urge to hold and comfort her was too strong for him to resist.
He did use the remote to turn on the gas fireplace and the TV in the background. Bull also did his best to control his own emotions—hoping that the absence of his might help her— although he was surprised to find that he was horrible at it. Before he'd met her, he would have said he was utterly in control of his feelings. But there was no way he could tamp down the incredible concern he had for her or the fear he'd felt when he'd seen her there in that house. It had been bad that night in the road, but it was exponentially worse this time, because he knew her.
He was beginning to think that it was much more than that, but he refused to acknowledge it. The only important thing to him at this moment was her.
Bull couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself, either, although his intent was to do nothing more than soothe and comfort her. "There you are, little one," he cooed. "You're safe with me. You know me, and you know that I would never let anything happen to you. You're here in our—my—living room and we can have cocoa, or watch cartoons, or do whatever you'd like."
The cartoon idea had just popped into his head, but he immediately changed the channel to the Cartoon Network, not that they were playing anything that he recognized.
He was more acutely aware, this time around, that she was little now, and he didn't know if this might be the last time he saw her like this. Part of him mourned that idea, but the rest of him had to be happy with it, because it meant that she wouldn't be torn apart by what she did for a living.
He frowned darkly. No, it meant that she would be alone the next time this happened to her, with no one to help her—except perhaps some opportunistic cop who wouldn't know what he had in her, how unique she was, or how to treat her little. It came to him naturally, but what if someone else tried to take advantage of her when she was so open and defenseless?
The thought made him want to rip that fictional rival apart with his bare hands, and that translated to him squeezing her arm a bit hard, making her whimper, and, although he apologized profusely for hurting her, she began to weep mournfully again and all he could do was hold and rock her until she had nothing more to give and simply lay limp against him.
Warm, soft lips were pressed to her temple as she felt him wipe her face dry, then just continue to cuddle her. He was big and hard and safe and very strongly worried and tense and afraid, but nothing scary. And she knew, with utter certainty, that he would take care of her.
And he did.
"I gotta pee, little one," he announced a few minutes later, getting up with her in his arms and heading for the bathroom, as if it was something he did every day. He plopped her down on the commode, in the bare spot between the sink he used and the one he didn't, and she immediately began to lean towards him, arms out, fingers flexing as she began to mewl for him.
"You stay right where I put you, young lady," he warned sternly, and her tantrum receded until she finally wrapped her arms around the ever-present Wabbit with a comical pout.
He peed as efficiently as he could manage while keeping an eye on her.
As he was washing his hands, he asked her, "Do you need to tinkle?"
She colored at that, shaking her head "no.”
"Are you sure?"
More shaking.
"Okay, then." He hoped her little was potty-trained, but he kind of thought she was.
He didn't think he had any DVDs that were suitable for a young child, so he found The Little Mermaid on a streaming service, although she didn't seem to be interested in much of anything besides clinging to him, which was fine. He brought her to the kitchen with him and got himself a beer, wishing he'd had the forethought to get her a sippy cup, although, in reality, it would probably have been a waste.
But he made her cocoa and gave it to her in a plastic mug, so it wouldn't matter if she dropped it, and as soon as they sat down again together, she curled up on his lap, holding onto his shirt with one hand, the thumb of the other securely in her mouth. He didn't think he'd seen anything as cute ever in his life as he brushed the hair back out of her eyes.
They ended up back in his chair again. She had gradually become a lot calmer, no longer moaning or trembling, and her teeth weren't chattering. She was still a little barnacle, but that wasn't any kind of a hardship. He loved carrying her around with him and watching over her closely, and he hoped she'd eventually feel comfortable enough to fall asleep on him.
And, eventually, she did, although it took longer than he thought it would.
Chapter 7
When she awoke, she was sprawled on top of him, and—reflexively—the first thing she did was reach for Wabbit, who she clutched to her spasmodically for a moment, then forced herself to give up.
His early morning rough voiced, "I saw that," made her blush as those big hands of his travelled up her thighs and over her bottom then up her back—none of which was bare, for some reason.
"What am I wearing, dare I ask?" She was much too comfortable to be bothered to look.
The deep-throated chuckle that rumbled beneath her ear sounded almost too good to her, reinforcing the deep feelings of contentment and security that were left over from last night. "My smallest t-shirt—although it still hits your knees—and my smallest shorts, although they kept slipping off you all night. I know you don't usually sleep in anything—and can I say that that is almost unbearably sexy of you—but I couldn't have your little sleep that way. It just didn't seem right. If I'd had a pair of kids' pajamas around, I'd've put you into them, but I don't."
He made a mental note to buy one in her size, but then mentally scratched the idea with severe reluctance.
Lark smiled against his chest. "That was very gallant of you, Bull."
He leaned up to kiss the top of her head.
"And thank you again, for being there for me."
"You don't have to thank me, honey. I wouldn't have been anywhere else."
She began to trace lazy patterns on the obvious muscles of his chest. "I know, but I don't feel like I can say it enough, really. That's twice you've saved the bacon of a woman you don't even like—going well above and beyond—"
The shorts were gone in an instant, along with what little there was to her panties. Lark yelped loudly as his hand descended on her butt sharply and continued to do so.
She wiggled and twisted and writhed and arched, but his one hard arm across her back meant that she remained exactly where he wanted her to.
"No. Stop, please. Ow! What? Oh, what, stop! Ow! Did. No! I—please! Say?" The smacking of his hand on her backside meant that she wasn't in any kind of a place where she could play it back in her head, but she didn't think she'd said anything she hadn't said before or anything he should object to.
B
ull continued to blister her behind, spanking her probably harder than was technically necessary, but he felt strongly about this, and he wanted to make his point so that she'd remember it in the future. "I don't want to hear anymore from you about how I don't like you."
His face was almost angrier than she'd ever seen it before.
"I-I'm sorry. I won't do that again."
He gave her another five or so swats, but his heart was no longer in it.
Instead, he reached down and pulled her up him, so that her face was above his. "I do like you, Lark. I like you a lot." His hands squeezed her arms gently, then rubbed her back.
She smiled, and his day was made already. Hell, it had been made just by waking up with her in his arms, but that was the cherry on top. "Thank you, Bull. I like you, too. A lot."
The hand that always seemed to be either cracking across her butt or buried in her hair found its second home, fingers curling around the back of her head as he brought her lips to his, tongue dueling with hers and, as always, winning.
Although the impulse was there, she decided not to push it and ask whether or not he'd had a change of heart and now believed in her. She didn't think she'd like to hear the answer, and she couldn't take being made miserable two days in a row.
She did pull back away from him, though, as much as he'd allow her to. "Don't we have to go in and do a debriefing of some sort?"
"I already told the chief I'd bring you in at two," he explained, while relieving her of her shirt then reaching down to split her legs open around him. As his hands settled on those slim hips, he slowly began to push her down the length of him, until his cockhead was almost but not quite notched into her and was very definitely being bathed in her honey. "Mmm," he groaned. "Someone gets very wet when they're spanked, don't they, babygirl?"
She blushed and tried to hide her head against him.
"Look at me. I want to see your eyes when I take you."
Lark had never felt anything like what she did with him—and it wasn't at all attributable to his size. She was a little worried that some of it was the gift of silence he gave her, but the bare truth was that it was much more than that.
More than she wanted—or was going to be allowed—to be capable of thinking about at the moment.
Instead, she gave herself to him as fully as she possibly could—more so than with any other man, and, as surely as she had known that he would keep her safe last night, Lark knew that she was doing the right thing.
She knew he enjoyed watching her, and she did her best not to suppress anything she was feeling as he penetrated her. Indeed, he seem to revel in every gasp, every mewl, every groan she uttered at least as much as she did. He was one of those rare, wonderful men who got off on getting their partner off and wasn't afraid to show it.
Seeing and feeling her accommodate him was one of the most powerful things he'd ever experienced. It made him want to tie her to the bed and never let her up—or somehow wear her around, so that he was always inside her.
Neither of those seemed viable, but another idea clicked into his head that was, and he tucked it away for further consideration, then applied himself to the delightfully hot Miss Jeffries, whose eyes had drifted shut, although she was biting her lip and panting at the same time.
Suddenly, he sat up, taking her with him, so that they were facing each other. He put his lips almost up against hers, kissing her a few times, barely, as he allowed gravity to do its job and impale her on him while he brushed the backs of his hands over puckered pink tips and drank in every unbearably sexy sound she made as she gave herself to him once again.
And he couldn't keep himself from pushing her hips down as he snapped his own up, claiming as much of her as he could and adoring her slight cry of surprise.
"You are so tiny—I'm always amazed that you can take me," he breathed against her shoulder.
Lark smiled shyly. "Well, it's not as if you give me much of a choice, big man."
He left off nibbling on her collarbone to pin her with his gaze. "Don't look at me like that, little girl. That kind of look'll get you into trouble."
Somehow, she didn't seem to be particularly worried as small fingers pinched and pulled his nipples. "What kind of trouble did you—oh—fuck—Bull!"
She was held open for him by sheer dint of her position, and he took full advantage, collecting her hands to hold behind her as he pumped a generous amount of the lotion he kept in his headboard onto two fingers that he then sent to claim her clit.
She jumped at bit when he began to distribute it. "Oh, that's cold!"
"Give it a minute. I promise it'll warm up. Maybe more than you'll want it to."
He said it in a way that made her wonder what he was up to, but she soon found out for herself as her entire little button became even more sensitive than it had been just seconds ago. She felt as if the very air around her was rubbing up against her there.
"Jesus. Christ. Stop! Oh, holy hell!"
Bull did stop, withdrawing his fingers immediately and releasing her arms because she sounded upset. "Is it hurting you or burning?"
She had already moved completely away from him, as soon as he gave her the opportunity to do so, and was sitting on the bed by herself, clutching at the sheets. But she wasn't screaming or crying in pain or anything, and he was at a loss about what to do for her. He hated just sitting there watching her if she was in pain.
But, in fact, she was shaking her head in answer to his inquiry. "N-no."
He moved closer to her, wanting to be there if she was allergic to the stuff or whatever. He would help her deal with whatever it was that was bothering her about it. Bull quickly produced a generous handful of tissues. "Here. Wipe it off. I'm sorry if it hurt you—"
Lark was panting heavily and one hand came up to rest on his stomach rather than taking the tissues he was offering as she leaned forward a bit, looking as if she wanted to hump his thigh.
"It's—it's too much. It's got me—I-I didn't need any help! I'm always on the edge of an orgasm when I'm with you—oh, God, I feel like I'm gonna come any second and no one's touching me!"
She caught the enormous—and enormously smug—grin that slid across his face.
"Well, then. That's perfect, although you know better than to come, don't you?" She positively wailed at that pronouncement. Bull, deeply relieved to know that she was fine, just incredibly horny, simply returned to where he'd been when she'd moved away from him, arms out to her. "I want you here with me."
But she remained right where she was, rocking her hips in a motion that he recognized as something he wanted her to do when he was inside her, not when she was sitting there all by herself.
"Come here, babygirl."
Lark refused to look at him. Christ, even just that was probably going to send her over the edge, especially if he gave her one of those terribly stern expressions he was so fucking good at.
But he didn't. What he did do was lift her—as if she weighed nothing at all—to bend her over the edge of the bed and hold her there, her head dangling well above the floor, hands free, because she couldn't reach back to do much to him, anyway, as he held her right there, completely safe, and used something he'd kept from earlier days, when he hadn't shaved his head.
He used what had been his hairbrush on her.
It was smaller than most women's brushes, but it was also thicker and, thus, made more of an impression with each impact. It was solid mahogany, and the flat head of it—which was producing such a nice, loud "splat" against her behind and a nice loud yelp from her each time he brought it down—wasn't much bigger than a deck of cards, but it worked very nicely to get his point across, if her frantic arm waving and fruitless attempts at escaping were anything to go by.
It was over relatively quickly—especially for one of his spankings—but it was more than bad enough. When he helped her up, she was sniffling and sniveling and hiccoughing and still weeping as if he'd taken his belt to her.
Bull held her close as
she curled against him, murmuring sweet nothings and commiserating with her. "Poor baby. That's a hard lesson to learn, isn't it? To obey me when I tell you to come to me? That's okay. I'll repeat it for you as many times as you need me to."
He didn't let her go until she was almost through crying, and then, before he did, he made her lie across his lap—on it rather than over it this time—and spread her legs for him.
Lark had no idea what he was about until she felt yet another generous dollop of that awful stuff being deposited on her clit.
She tried to squirm away, but there was never, ever going to be any real hope of that—not that she was going to stop trying.
Not until he allowed it, which he finally did. She scrambled away from him, but, for the second time, he arranged himself in the same position he had been and opened his arms to her.
"Come here, little girl."
This time, although she was still crying a bit, and her clit ached atrociously, she did as she was told.
And as he forced her to sink down onto him again, he soothed her, although not in the manner that she most wanted him to. "Doesn't that feel better now, to be all filled up?"
No, she nearly screamed at him, it felt even more atrociously sensitive, because, by now, that lotion had worked its way down to where they were joined, and he had slid a lot of it into her, along with himself! And his hairy thighs rubbed against the sore, red patches that horrible implement had left on her tender skin! Her bottom was almost painful enough to completely offset any pleasure she was feeling.
Almost.
Not that it didn't add to her situation, too, perversely, although she wasn't about to admit that to him.
He then produced a sleep mask that he slipped over her eyes. "Bull!" she protested loudly, knowing better than to reach up and take it off.
He was nothing if not solicitous of her. "Does that make you feel uncomfortable or afraid, Lark?"
The Lark and the Bull Page 8